


Everybody Digs

by hegemony



Category: Marvel Cinematic Universe
Genre: F/M, Identity Porn, Secret Relationship
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-01-30
Updated: 2013-01-30
Packaged: 2017-11-27 13:58:16
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,125
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/662783
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/hegemony/pseuds/hegemony
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>He reminds her of someone, another James she felt strongly fond of, but where that man was her soldier, Rhodes is her double agent, unknowingly sitting in the company of a real spy. </p><p>In the morning, she'll have to leave, and in the evening he'll have to mature.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Everybody Digs

**Author's Note:**

> Written for Porn Battle, Prompts "names, competent, suits." Written in one sitting to a vinyl recording of Bill Evans' 'Everybody Digs', but the timing's off, so trying to read it to the story is sort of moot. 
> 
> Assumes Knowledge of Iron Man 2, up to and through the birthday party scene. 
> 
> Part of the [Matryoskha](http://archiveofourown.org/works/540818) series.

“What have I...” 

“'What have you' what?” she asks, and knows how this looks. Trusts she plays the part well enough, standing there in tonight's armor, a mix of Agent Provocateur and the shirt from his dress blues. She's good at this kind of game, it's her favorite to play.

“What have I possibly done to deserve you?” he asks. 

There are, of course, several exquisite explanations for what he's done to deserve her (he's been gentle and patient and allowed her to be herself, as well as being the military liason and private cohort to one Anthony Edward Stark), but she sees no real reason to reveal much of the truth to him, not now. She smiles warmly, switches from one foot to the other like she's a little tipsy, puts her head down a little. 

“You know I hate it when you act like that.” 

“But it's true,” he smiles. “You're too good to me, Natalie.” 

If she had thinner skin, the name would sting. But now he's wrapping his hands around her waist, and it doesn't matter who she is as she leans her head onto his shoulder. Bill Evans is in the middle of one of his ballads on the turntable and Lieutenant Colonel James Rhodes of the United States Air Force looks too tired to question how she got in without a key. 

They don't talk about work, it's never come easy to them, and yet... 

She sways in his arms, her hair cascading over his shoulder. And she has carefully constructed this moment, has put time and thought into the way her hips sway in his palms, the way she looks at him as he takes her hand and turns her in the middle of his living room. 

He pauses as she faces him again, places his hand onto her shoulder and slides it up to the nape of her neck as he dips her before returning her back to standing. She hooks her naked thigh against his hip, goes with him in hopes their mouths will meet when they return back to normal, but it doesn't work. It never works. 

“Bet you try that with all the boys,” he teases. 

“You're too pious for me,” she replies on a laugh. “I should leave you for someone raunchy.”

“I'm surprised you haven't,” he admits. “You don't seem like the type to accept it when you don't get what you want.” 

“Oh,” she smiles. “I wouldn't go that far.” 

The tempo picks up a bit, grows a little more urgent for a few bars, and she can feel the two of them growing straighter, closer. She likes the way he smells, like hard work and competency, like fresh knowledge and sweat, blood and gunpowder. 

She relaxes into him, finds comfort in that smell. The added sheen of metal alloy that she can sense reminds her of another James she felt strongly for, even if she knows he hates throwing Stark under the bus in a way her soldier would have never. 

He's a double agent, now; she has done her best to soften the inevitable self-hatred that rises like infant's bile and serves to erode his so-called morality. He'll grow stronger, he'll be beautiful. 

“Kiss me?” she moans. 

He stops, leans the two of them together. The first glance of his mouth is like the muzzle flash of a gun, bright and sharp and a little cruel, but she pulls him close and they both act to deepen at the same time. She knows she will have him by night's end. 

They've had sex once: good sex, unending. He's a hard worker there, too. But every other time there has been an emergency to distract either one or both of them, something wrong, the edge of worry. Her phone is off tonight, though, and he looks like he is unwilling to put duty before her after such a long day. This will work to her advantage. 

“I want you,” he whispers, the melody of his words as sweet and earnest as Evans' _Epilogue_ , and she gives herself over to him, leans in and lets him take her weight like she's been paralyzed with need. 

It's selfish, a little, to be so hungry for a mark, but she is and she's learned it's not worth questioning until the report's in Fury's hands. 

She brings the record into the bedroom with the bottle of wine, pours the glass they'll inevitably share as he disrobes in the bathroom. 

He leans there, naked in the doorsil as he watches her from across the room, watches her as she lifts the glass to her lips and takes her first drink of the evening. 

“You're beautiful,” he says. 

She doesn't blush, but Natalie can't help it. 

“Rhodey,” she smiles, “please.” 

He walks over, sits on the bed. She comes, sits next to him, hands him the glass and drapes herself on his shoulder. They sit there, listening to the music and the silence and each other's breath, passing the glass back and forth by its stem. They are tired people and for a moment they are tired together, curled up into each other in a corner of his duvet. 

The wine runs dry, and she kisses him again, sees just how hard he is, how aroused she makes him. 

Their kisses take a more urgent quality, playful bites and slick tongues against jaws. She reaches down, traces his burgeoning erection. 

“Nata--” he chokes as she lowers her head and takes him into her mouth, tongue flicking over the head of him. It is tempting to give him something technically perfect, blow his lid as quick as she can just because she can, but he's worthy of more than that, she thinks. So she takes her time, doesn't bobble her head as rhythmically as she could, doesn't ask him if he wants to fuck her mouth. 

His hand slips into her hair, clenches gently and needfully but doesn't try to control anything and she marvels at how gentle he is to her even as she does take him deeper into her throat, clenches around him warm and wet. 

He leans back, rests his head on her thigh. 

“Not that these aren't gorgeous on you,” he murmurs gently. “But I really want you to take them off for me. Please?”

He always has asked politely. 

She leans up and looks at him. 

“I would really like to eat you, right now,” he continues as he inches closer to her center, fingers tickling at the waistband. “but these look expensive and I don't know how wet they can become before they go to waste.” 

She chuckles at that, runs a hand through his hair. “How can a girl say no to that?” 

“I think,” he smiles, “it depends on what you mean by 'girl.'” 

She undoes the bow on the side of her hip, and tugs the other one free too. The lace falls lax and she peels it back for him, clever fingers slowly revealing what he wants to see. 

She sprawls out, leans back against him and licks him from root to tip once more, sucking gently on the skin of his hips and thighs until he turns and mirrors her position, lets her lean on his thigh too.

The music quiets, a pensive dawdling piano, and he curls into her, knotting the two of them together as he finally, finally puts his mouth on her. She had pressed all of those feelings, all of that need down but she's arching up to him now, the lace of her bra and the polyester of the shirt scratching against him but it doesn't seem to matter, not like this, not when they're so close, not when they're taking the time to have this. 

He raises her leg, splits her open, fixes his mouth against her clit. Her mouth waters, she takes him deep in her throat again. He slips a finger inside her, comes back with two. The piano's cadence strengthens. They snuggle in closer, moan their pleasure. He pauses as she swipes her fingers against the base of his cock on the way to his sack, a tickling touch meant to tease out his control. His fingers flick against her in time with his tongue, finding that place inside her. Someone exhales, but she doesn't know who. Can't bring herself to care. 

His tongue dances over her clit, his mouth massaging her labia and she gets a hand around him, squeezing the girth of him appreciatively. She aches for this inside her, this rhythm, this pace, this hidden intimacy they seem to be uncovering. 

“I want to feel this around me,” he admits out loud and it sends shivers down her spine, “I want you as naked as I am.” 

'But James, my darling, there are so many layers,' she wants to say and can't. So she sits up, looks down at him. So she lets him pull away for protection. So she kneels, her legs under her as she gently undoes herself for him, sheds his shirt and unclasps her bra and pushes her hair off her shoulder. There's no need for her to seduce, so she sprawls out alongside him without lowering her eyes or crawling attractively, simply lays back on the bed and makes space between her legs. 

Her legs twine around him when he slips himself inside, flares his hips out and back in again. He pushes kisses against the outlines of her collarbones, and tastes like come and skin when she sucks on his tongue. 

Silence now, she feels no need to moan appreciatively. It's a little too genuine for that. Too meaningful. There is just the gentle rocking of the two of them together, the understanding creak of a bedspring every now and then. They are already too close, too vulnerable, the end will come too soon. 

And when it does, she holds her breath and allows herself something she starves herself of, as often as she can: She comes. 

“Oh,” he says, quietly, and thrusts a little deeper, lets his hands roll down into the cut of her hips. Another knot, he leans down and bites into her shoulder as they move together, hips like water, and he finally gives in. 

She feels bound, after that, as they shower and prepare for sleep. She sees the beacon on her phone, knows Fury will go live in the morning. 

They sleep in each other's negative space. 

 

 

 

She puts on the widow suit in the morning while he's still dozing in bed. She's pulling on the shoes as he opens his eyes. 

“That what Pepper's asking you to wear, now?” he asks, “'Cause seriously, that's too kinky for business casual.” 

“I'm not who you think I am,” she says. “And because of that, Jim, I can't do this with you anymore.” 

“Natalie,” he says. 

“My name is Natasha,” she interrupts as she watches him work himself up to sitting. 

He stares as she carefully repacks her bag, finds the keys for the motorcycle she parked a block down the road. 

“You can't tell me you...” 

“My assignment's ending, and I can't lie to you anymore,” she says. “My name is Natasha.” 

“You were here for Stark, weren't you?” he asks, and he's awake in every meaning of the word. Her little double agent finds himself in the company of a real spy. She licks her lips and nods, wordlessly. 

In his defense, he doesn't crumple under the news, doesn't hang his head. His eyes don't crest over with tears.

He said he'd loved her, once. Perhaps, she thinks, he was lying to her, too. 

She moves to walk away, hates herself for bringing closure in this manner. She should have left in the middle of the night, she should have killed him with kindness, she should have poisoned his wine. She should have...

“Goodbye, Natasha.” 

She stops, but doesn't look back. She's already ruined what she came here for, “Goodbye, James.” 

 

 

 

 

Ten months later, she presses the button for the private elevator in Stark Tower. She stands there, waiting for the car, looking at the private lobby for this too-showy place, wondering if she's been a fool to move in. 

The doors open. He's standing there, a SHIELD bag in his hand. He looks up and his eyes ice over, the cut on his cheek flinching in the overhead light. 

“Widow,” He says in terse greeting as he steps out, flicking on his sunglasses. He pushes past her, walks straight to the door, makes his exit out to the street as economically as he possibly could. 

“Colonel,” she says as it slams shut. 

She sighs, her little double agent's all grown up.


End file.
